The Matchmaker

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

III:

The Waking Dream

It was warm, and it was dark when Tom awoke. He'd been having a quite disturbing dream, in which Dedalus Diggle was almost attractive and a red-lipped spider was devouring Kingsley's body whole.

He blinked rapidly, eyelids heavy.

Tom let out a muffled groan. He was sore all over.

What had he been drinking last night?

Eyesight adjusting to the darkness, Tom realized he wasn't in bed, wasn't asleep at his desk, or even in a hospital room. He was . . . trapped.

Alarm set in.

Tom slammed his hands against the wooden lid above him, air filling his lungs in quick, frantic pants. The entire right side of his body brushed against something soft, something alive. He gasped out loud.

He wasn't alone.

Swallowing tightly, Tom took several, calming breaths, before he realized - they might have a limited air supply. Stretching his toes, Tom began to mentally compute the exact dimensions of the coffin, and from there, he could determine how much air -

Wait. He closed his eyes, lashes tangling, and tried to remember. Tom tried to get the facts straight. He was - he was in a coffin. He wasn't alone. The only likely scenario was . . . "The Matchmaker," he hissed.

He knew the Matchmaker inside and out, from his motive to his modus operandi. God willing, if this wasn't a copycat, there would be an air tube.

The Matchmaker wasn't in the business of killing. Simply . . . containing.

"Pull yourself together, Riddle," he whispered furiously to himself. "And find the damn tube."

With that, Tom raised his arms and began to feel for weak spots in the coffin, for a hole or crack. He worked every inch of what he could reach and made a sharp, hissing sound when his finger caught against a splinter. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked at the spots of blood. The noise slowly roused the other victim, who shifted uncomfortably. Tom stilled.

From what Tom could see in the darkness, the other victim - other match - was smaller in stature. Younger, he assumed. Thankfully, the coffin was large enough to fit two bodies.

A dark, tousled head turned toward Tom, a strand of pitch-black hair falling into dazed green eyes. The man woke slowly, and then all at once, dazed eyes darting around. His lips parted, the skin chapped and pink.

"Wha -?"

"Good, you're awake," Tom spoke fast and sharp. He had bigger problems than a panicking coffin-mate. "I could use another set of hands."

The boy made a faint noise of confusion. "What? Who - who are you?"

"Introductions can come later, once we get out of this place," Tom growled, shoving against the lid. He took a deep breath and tried to explain as succinctly as possible. "I suspect we've been buried alive by the Matchmaker. He's a serial kidnapper who - "

"Yeah," the man rasped out, blinking rapidly. "I've heard of him. We're - buried alive?"

"Don't ask obvious questions," Tom snapped. Watching those eyes - far too close for comfort - dilate with fear, confusion, hurt, Tom tore his gaze away. "Don't worry, it's not meant to be fatal."

"Well - " the man gave a watery, hysterical laugh, slamming his hands against the lid. "That's not much of a relief, is it? How do we get out?"

"First things first, it's too dark in here. I can't see anything. Turn out your pockets for anything useful," Tom demanded.

"Alright, alright, no need to be an arse," Experimentally, the man patted himself down, oddly obedient for someone who had just awoken six feet underground with a stranger. Most people would be suffering a panic attack or perhaps already be sobbing. The man seemed coherent, and his breathing was even - either shock had yet to hit, or the man was good in high-stress situations.

"I think I still have my phone, but I can't reach it. It's -" the man halted, cheeks coloring. "It's on my left side. What's in yours?"

"Handcuffs. Not that they're any use now."

A dark brow was raised. "Kinky."

Tom's lips part in annoyance. Great. He was trapped with someone who fancied himself a jokester. Tom lifted his chin, resolute. "My handcuffs are not to be used for anything other than their intended purpose. Please don't disparage them in that manner," he paused. With forced politeness, he continued: "I'd like to see if I can grab your phone. May I?"

The man laughed again, breathy and unhinged. "Might as well. Be my guest."

Touching as little of the man as possible, Tom found the edge of his sweater and trailed his fingers downward. The man squirmed slightly. "Ticklish," he whispered, breath warm against Tom's collarbone. Tom could feel the heat between their bodies and moved faster. Finally, he met a phone-shaped bulge in the man's trousers and began to slowly wiggle it out. They both let out a breath of relief.

"There." He flicked a button on the side, and the screen lit up, burning their eyes. It showed a background image of a fairly cute little boy; face freckled, a dimple in his cheek, his hair dyed an alarming shade of turquoise. Tom's eyes flicked upward. "No signal. Damn." But the battery was mostly charged, a blessing.

"There's a torchlight app," the man offered, reaching to tap the screen. "Just - there."

A beam erupted from the backlight, a circle of wood and nails suddenly visible.

From the corner of his eye, Tom inspected his companion; the man - correction, boy - was slim, dark-haired and younger than Tom had expected. His voice had been ageless and epicene, and his face still soft with youthfulness.

He was attractive, Tom noted distantly.

The boy's eyes were even brighter now, reflecting the phone light. Tom was struck by the shifting hues, the acidic green darkening as their situation dawned. Tom tore his gaze from the other man's. Now was not the time to memorize every speck of color in the stranger's irises.

"Right," Tom cleared his throat. "Check your side of the casket for a hole or crack, large enough to fit an air tube."

The boy hesitated, clearly doubtful, but nodded. Without speaking, they pushed and prodded the box's corners. The boy's brow furrowed in concentration.

"I - " after a moment, the boy spoke. "I think I found something. A hole. There's a plastic pipe inside - "

"Don't touch it!" Tom snapped. The boy flinched back, hands raised in consolation. "It's supplying us air. If it falls out of place or fills with dirt, then we most definitely will die." Before the boy could register that declaration, Tom continued, lecturing like a teacher; no-nonsense, barely allowing a pause for his student to catch up.

"From my approximations - I've researched this extensively - the average coffin's volume is about eight-hundred and eighty-six litres. The average person takes up sixty-six litres of that. Multiply both variables by two, as there are two of us and the coffin is twice as large to cater to our size, that leaves . . . "

The other finished it for him. "One thousand, six hundred and forty litres of air."

Tom blinked at him. "Exactly," He wasn't about to be impressed the boy knew basic mathematics. "And research claims a person consumes around twenty-three litres of air per hour, so double that - "

"And divide it from one thousand six hundred and forty. That's about thirty-five, nearly thirty-six hours of air."

"If we didn't have a steady stream of oxygen supplied to us," tiredly, Tom gestured to the tube. "So, thank fuck for merciful psychopaths . . . " he released a breath and leaned back.

They both greedily took in air, tasting dirt and dust, but grateful they weren't in immediate danger of asphyxiation.

"You're good with maths, then?" Tom asked, haltingly. Small talk wasn't his strong suit.

The other man hummed softly. "You know a lot about coffins, then?" he smiled weakly. " . . . Come here often?"

His half-hearted attempt at a pickup line fell flat.

Tom snorted. "I make a living knowing arbitrary facts about various means of murder. Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle," he introduced. "It's a pleasure."

"Huh. Sure. 'A pleasure'. If it makes you feel better, we can call it that," he muttered wryly. "Harry Potter." The boy, Harry (and Tom was a tad disappointed at such a dull name) bit his lip. "Detective, huh? I suppose there are worse people to be trapped with."

Thinking of Gellert and Albus, Tom agreed. "Much worse." His eyes narrowed in thought. His mind cast back to the crime scene photos, insistent on determining if this was a copycat kidnapper - or worse. "Speaking of - check your side again. There has to be a recording device somewhere."

"W - what? What are you talking about?"

"Take my word for it," Tom answered sternly. "Unless you want some psychopath listening in on us?"

Harry paused, his throat bobbing. Tom could practically hear Harry's thoughts circulating; Tom was used to people thinking he was paranoid.

"You're - " crazy " - probably right."

Astonishingly, Harry began searching without another word. He was stubborn, jaw set with one-track focus. He clucked his tongue. "I can't find anything."

"It has to be here," Tom's hands fell to his face, his blood pumping quick. "Right. Alright," he spread his fingers. "It's okay. He - she - whomever, will let us out soon. There's no point risking our lives trying to claw our way out when he always releases his matches. Always. We just have to wait it out, and - and say the magic words."

There was a beat, and Tom became fully aware of how utterly mad he sounded. Deranged.

Panic was surging in, breaking past his iron-clad barricades, rupturing his ability to remain calm. Squeezing his eyes shut, Tom's mind cast for something to say. "How - how soon will you be missed?"

Harry frowned, visibly frustrated. "I was supposed to open up shop this morning, but my boss - well, he's an idiot. I doubt he'll call the police. He'll just think I've slept in or took an abrupt sabbatical." His brow furrowed. "Why does it matter? Why are we here? Why did this - this 'Matchmaker' chose us?"

Tom wiped a hand over his face. "You ask too many questions."

"And I deserve an answer."

Touche, Tom thought. A damp, sweat-soaked curl brushed his forehead. "I'm investigating him," his tone was quiet. "Perhaps I was getting too close. As for you? I can't figure out the connection. What do you last remember?"

"I was closing up after work, and there was this - "

"Woman?" Tom asked, expression serious.

"No? A man," Harry shook his head. "He was following me. It was dark, and I couldn't see what he looked like, but I kept catching his eyes in window reflections. The next thing I knew, there was a hand over my mouth and I blacked out." Harry's features scrunched before he shook the discontent away.

Tom moved the torchlight, subtly inspecting the boy for injuries. Black strands of hair scattered his clothing, and Tom imagined the boy putting up a fight, their kidnapper yanking his head back, fingers twined through those unruly curls. "Did he pull out your hair? Hurt you?"

"What?" Harry looked down at himself, barking out a laugh. "Oh. No, that's from my dog. Padfoot. He likes to jump on me. What about you?"

"Do I have a dog?" Tom asked, belatedly.

"No, silly," Harry smiled. It quickly slid off. "What do you last remember?"

"I was on my way home from a bar, and . . . " Tom didn't want to admit that he'd been overcome by a woman half his size. He puffed out a breath, changing the subject. "That doesn't matter now. This is all just so odd," he pinched his nose tightly. "There's always some sort of connection."

"Connection?" Harry asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

"Yes. He's called the 'Matchmaker' for a reason." Commandeering Harry's phone, Tom laid it on his chest and spread his fingers across the wooden lid, inspecting them. "All of his victims so far have been acquainted. Old schoolmates. Friends. Even - "

"Scorned lovers?" Harry twisted the words bitterly.

"Yes. You've heard the news?"

Harry's eyes lowered, nodding. His face was half-bathed in shadow, his black, tangled curls melting into the darkness. "I read it in the paper. Grindelwald killed his ex-lover while buried in a coffin, not unlike this one."

"Hm. Well," Tom smiled tightly. "Let's not give each other reason to smother anyone, how about that?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

"That - " Tom sighed at himself. "That was a joke."

Harry was dubious, and likely regretting the Matchmaker's choice in companionship.

"Uh-huh."

At around eight in the morning, Madam Poppy Pomfrey peeled herself from the Riddle's living room couch, a nasty crick in her neck.

She swept back a silver curl of hair, her tightly wound bun in disarray. With a soft grunt, Poppy leaned down and grabbed the book she had been reading the night before. It had fallen to the ground, the pages crumpled and bent.

Poppy wiped off the dust jacket and set it carefully onto the coffee table. She had stayed up most of the night waiting for Thomas, a platter of cold tea left out for him; she had thought, after a night of drinking with friends and colleagues, he could use a bit of sobering.

Blinking the gunk from her eyes, Poppy brought the tea tray to the sink, setting it down with a clatter. "Where is that boy?" she murmured. Her lips pressed in a matter that appeared stern but was actually closer to concern. Washing out the cups, she quickly made a new batch, maneuvering around the Riddle's kitchen as though it were her own.

She lifted the old, turquoise rotary phone and dialed Tom's cellular. It rang for several long minutes, the connection tinny, 's automated voicemail, his voice deeply put-upon. "You have reached the voicemail of Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle Junior. Leave a message at the tone, including your name and number, and I will get back to you as soon as I am available." Strict, succinct, and yet maintaining the vague impression that the caller's time wasn't exactly valuable to the Detective Chief Inspector.

Sighing, Poppy hung up.

She could hear Merope's rattling snores from the downstairs bedroom; it used to be an office, but when Merope's muscles became too weak for the nightly trek up and down the stairs, Tom converted the office into a small, but cozy bedroom. Best of all, it had a view of the gardens - Merope's pride and joy, although she was too weak to continue even that.

Tom watered the gardens every morning before he left for work, and the parsnips were looking particularly parched this morning. Poppy's frown deepened. While the tea steeped, she filled the watering can under the faucet and hobbled out the back porch.

Rucking up her skirt, Poppy leaned down. Water trickled from the can, splattering onto the dainty petals of the pansy flowers Merope cultivated. With a soft hum, Poppy began to tour the garden, careful to avoid the bloody geraniums. Bloody geraniums needed little water to bloom and blossom.

Poppy, a lover of flowers, believed bloody geraniums gained a bad reputation from their unfortunate name. Their color was less like blood and more of a vibrant purple. The petals matched the petechiae spots that speckled Merope's arms and legs, an unattractive symptom of -

A light, persistent tap shook Poppy form her task.

She glanced up at the shadow of Merope's figure peering out through the bedroom window.

The woman waved a frail hand, her lips played into a soft frown; a mother's instincts, perhaps, recognizing that something was very wrong, indeed. She was usually roused by the sounds of Tom puttering about her garden, his strong, handsome form bowed over the delicate flowers and green-topped vegetables.

Merope, sitting up in bed, struggled at the mere effort of moving aside the window curtain. She was dying. It was true. But Merope loved her son so incredibly that the thought of dying and leaving him alone . . . terrified her more than death.

Tom was a resilient sort, but he was a mother's boy.

They were all each other had. Without his ailing mother to come home to, Merope doubted Tom would ever leave his office.

She doubted he would ever leave those gruesome murders and heinous crimes behind. He would throw his life into a profession that rarely came to a natural conclusion. There would always be another criminal to catch, bodies to find - crime never stopped and neither would Tom until he met his own grave.

Scrubbing a hand down her face, Merope began to slowly, achingly get herself dressed. The sun streamed through her window, glowing a sickly yellow on her wrinkled skin. Her hair, once a stark sheen of ebony, was lank and streaked with grey, tied into a frayed braid that helped with frictional hair loss.

Hands quivering with the effort, she reached to the bedside table and pulled on a pair of wire glasses. Her slight lazy eye corrected itself, tired obsidian eyes like pools of oil. Merope glanced at the table, lips pressed together.

Usually, in the mornings, Tom would place her pills on the bedside table beside a glass of lukewarm water. The table was empty.

Sighing, she tucked her feet into a pair of worn slippers. The slippers had once been a cheerful sky blue, but after years of wear and tear, they had become two slabs of grey fur. Tom had tried many times to throw them out and buy her new ones, forgetting that he had bought her this pair (along with a matching robe) with his first paycheck. The robe had long since been worn to tatters.

Using the carved cane settled against her bed frame, Merope stood. The cane wobbled precariously. Gasping out a breath, Merope staggered toward the pile of clean clothes set out the night before. Her entire wardrobe was tailored to easily zipped or buttoned on. As she grasped the fabric of a light purple blouse, her fingers spasmed, and the article fluttered to the ground. Merope stared despondently down at it.

Lips falling open in a soft moan, she tentatively began to reach -

Her bones ached, her blood thrummed, her eyes prickled with tears. She was just in so much damn pain. "Poppy," she rasped, gasping for air. "Poppy!"

Outside the window, Poppy lifted her head, eyes going wide.

The screen door slammed open and Poppy rushed into the room, tutting like a mother hen. She settled her hands on Merope's frail elbows, leading her back toward the bed. Merope settled onto the mattress, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, taking in harsh breathes.

"Today . . . " she murmured. She watched with deadened eyes as Poppy retrieved her fallen blouse, handing it to her with nary an ounce of pity in her eyes. (Poppy felt pity, certainly, but had learned from several long years working with the Riddle-Gaunt family that both mother and son tended to shut down, throwing up barriers, when faced with what they thought was condescension. )

"Today will not be a good day."

Poppy made a light, disapproving sound. "Well, how do you know that?"

"Tom never came home, did he?" Merope asked rhetorically. "He never came to kiss me goodnight."

"He could have," Poppy suggested, helping Merope slip her arms through the soft, silky sleeves. "You may have been sleeping."

Likely not, Merope thought.

She didn't sleep well most nights.

The new medication should have taken care of that, but it had a series of nasty side effects that repulsed her. When Tom or Poppy served Merope her nightly tray of pills, she slipped the slipping drugs beneath her tongue and spat them out into her glass of water to dissolve. There would always be a fresh glass by the next morning, and although she believed Tom might suspect - he was such a smart boy - Poppy was none the wiser.

"Did he leave for work early this morning?" Merope asked, spreading her knees as Poppy pulled up her skirt. Her legs, pale and speckled with burst capillaries, tremored like a geriatric's. Her nose crinkled at the analogy. She wasn't quite that old yet. "Have you called him?"

"I did. It went to voicemail."

"Well, then. Call his friend - the dark, distinguished man."

Madam Pomfrey tipped her head, confused. "Who? Oh! Shacklebolt, yes. I'll call him, after you take your medication, Merope," she tsked, smoothing out the creases in Merope's blouse.

Merope shook her head. "No. Now. I won't take it until you call."

Poppy prepared to protest, but Merope's intense, watery gaze made her falter. Her lips pursed, wrinkles pinching her face. "You're very stubborn. Will you really fight me on this?"

Merope gave her a wry, twitchy smile. "'Til my last breath."

Poppy let out a sigh, resigned. "Very well."

After getting her dressed, Poppy pulled a wheelchair out from the closet where it had been folded up and hidden away. Merope settled into the chair with a grimace, hating the very idea of being carted around as though she was some sort of invalid. "I made tea," Poppy said, falsely cheerful, wheeling Merope into the living room. "Your favorite."

"You don't make it as well as Tom does," Merope complained, but the glimmer in her eyes said she was only teasing.

"Oh, so you wouldn't like a cup of fresh ginseng?" Poppy's eyebrows arched. "I used some of the herbal medicinal tea from that apothecary you like so much.'"

Merope tsked. "Tom thought he was so clever hiding the receipt, but despite my age, I do know how to work Google. Fifty pounds for a few slices of wild ginseng root."

"He must really love you, Merope."

Merope's smile slipped from her face. Poppy rolled her eyes skyward. "Alright, alright, I'll call. Just finish your tea while I dial, you know it's good for you."

With sudden energy, Merope grasped the tea-cup and swallowed down the ginseng, barely registering the earthy, slightly bitter flavor. It would've been better with a touch of honey, Merope thought, like how Tom makes it.

The cup itself was the last remaining of a set of six, the others having been dropped, chipped and used for target practice when Tom was ten.

He had received a BB gun from his estranged father for Christmas and had been obsessed with having perfect marksmanship; Thomas Senior had been a hunter, and now Tom hunted criminals. Like father, like son.

Shaking her head, Merope watched as Poppy flipped through their phonebook. Poppy soon found - written in Tom's precise, scrawling handwriting - the number of D.S. Kingsley Shacklebolt. She murmured the number aloud as she dialed, lifting the old rotary to her ear.

Glancing back at Merope's attentive figure, Poppy anxiously twirled a silver curl around her finger. "Hello, is this Detective Sergeant Shacklebolt?"

From the other end, Merope could hear a man's voice, gruff and deep. "Yes, this is he. How did you get this number?"

"Thomas gave it to me in case of emergencies. This is Poppy Pomfrey, his mother's nurse, I believe we met - "

"At the family function, yes," his voice went soft with recognition. "How are you, Poppy?"

"Very well, thank you, dear," she fluttered a hand to her chest, finding herself unwittingly charmed. She wasn't as young as she used to be, and a handsome, strapping young man's polite inquiries gave her quite the thrill.

Merope, rolling her eyes, pushed forward in her wheelchair. The front wheel ran over the toe of Poppy's shoe and the nurse hissed.

Glaring at her charge, Poppy flicked her in the ear. "Sorry, yes, I just stubbed my toe. I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but we - that is, Merope and I - were wondering if you've seen Tom?"

Kingsley's desk chair squeaked as he sat up. "No. Have you?" the man asked. "He hasn't arrived at work yet, but I thought perhaps he was hungover," slightly guilty, he confided. "I'm a bit hungover myself. We were out drinking at the pub last night, but he left early. He - uh - had a bit to drink and didn't seem to be enjoying himself. I haven't heard from him since."

Rage bubbling in her stomach, Merope gestured for the phone, the tight curl of her lips indicating Kingsley was about to be read the riot act. "Are you to tell me," she snapped, voice sharp and grating, unlike Poppy's soft cadence. Kingsley winced. "That my son could very well be wandering around drunk or injured or worse, all because you - a grown adult - were too busy indulging yourself to send him home in a cab?"

"Ma'am," Kingsley said, placating. "All due respect, but your son is a grown man, not to mention the Detective Chief Inspector of the DLE. He knows his limits, and I'm sure he's resting it off somewhere in a motel - "

Merope scoffed. "A motel! Clearly, you don't my son very well at all." She began to tremble, and Poppy carefully extricated the phone from her grasp before it could fall.

"Just have him call us if he comes into work," Poppy told Kingsley. "Thank you, Detective - no, really, it's not your fault. Please, enjoy your day, and perhaps try some ginger tea for the hangover, with a bit of honey for a pick-me-up." Her lips split into a small smile. "You're very welcome. Have a good afternoon. Yes. Yes. Goodbye."

Hanging up the phone with a clang, she spun around, hands on her hips. "Well! You certainly handled that well."

Sniffing, Merope patted at her eyes, and Poppy softened. "Oh, deary," she tutted, crouching down. She patted her shoulders consolingly, letting Merope rest her head against Poppy's breasts. "He'll be alright, Merope. I know he will be."

"He better be," Merope snarled, hiding her face. "Little brat."

According to Harry's phone, it was now close to noon. Seeing the battery slowly ween away, Tom turned off the device to preserve energy. The two were bathed in darkness. They kept each other company by making idle comments, cracking jokes, or simply focusing on the other's breathing. It assured them that they weren't alone.

Tom, brow furrowing, realized Harry was panting.

"Are you alright?" Tom paused. "You're . . . breathing rather hard."

"Y - yeah. I'm fine. I just never realized how - how t-tight it would get in here," his breathing labored, Harry began to tremble. His eyes darted between the ceiling and the walls. He drew in on himself, limbs knocking together.

Tom blanched. "God, don't tell me you're claustrophobic?"

"No!" Harry defended furiously. "No, I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just," he sucked in a shallow breath. "Keep me distracted."

Tom thought quickly, feeling the weight of Harry's phone on his chest. "Um. Your screensaver; it's of a little boy. Is he yours?" Tom instantly regretted the question. The child looked eight or nine at most, and Harry was . . . young. Logical deduction was clearly failing him. Perhaps shock was finally settling in, Tom wondered grimly.

Harry let out a breathless laugh. "Oh. Kind of."

Tom's stomach jumped at the thought of Harry being a single father. Truthfully, the thought of anyone being such a young parent reminded him of his mother. Lips pressed together, as he tried not to imagine her reaction to him being kidnapped. She'd be furious.

"He's my godson," Harry continued, breaking Tom from that line of thought. "He's living with his grandmother. I want to get custody at some point, but that's not likely to happen with my salary," the boy admitted. "Teddy's happy there. He's safe, and his grandmum spoils him."

"Where are his parents?" Tom inquired, voice deep. He hoped he wasn't crossing a boundary.

"They're dead," Harry's jaw clenched. "Like mine."

His voice seemed to echo in the small chambers.

Before Tom could respond, likely with condolences or something equally meaningless, his stomach rumbled. Tom's face erupted with heat. "God, I'm so sor - "

Harry released a laugh, the sound like springtime. If Tom could see in the dark, he was sure Harry's eyes would be sparkling. "I'm hungry, too," Harry agreed. "It's around lunchtime. Think anyone has noticed by now?"

Tom settled a hand on his stomach, feeling it tighten with faint hunger. He spoke idly. "My coworkers, likely. I very rarely miss work," he somehow felt the need to keep the conversation light. "How about you?"

Snorting, Harry's eyes fluttered shut with a yawn. His breathing was still spiked, but Tom could sense the tension bleeding away from him. "As I said, Slughorn is a moron. Considering I do all the work, he's probably struggling without me," his voice tinged with pity. "Sluggy's a good man, despite it all. He doesn't mean any harm. He just - erm - exposed himself to a few too many drugs in his youth. All play and no work has made Sluggy a dull boy."

"Slughorn? From Slug and Jiggers?" Tom realized. "I shop there. Not for me," he said quickly. "For my mother's . . . er, 'herbal medications'."

"I can hear your air quotes, Tom."

The man gave a hapless shrug. "It sounds like witchcraft to me, but it if it makes her feel even the slightest bit more human, I'd pay anything for it," he paused, thinking. "I've never seen you there . . . I don't think."

"I work in back," Harry divulged. "At least, I do now. There was an . . . incident." He coughed, cheeks flushing. "One of our customers took a liking to me, and she began to follow me after work. Romilda figured out my weekly schedule and kept bumping into me at the grocers. I thought it was just harmless, at first - until she gave me these chocolates. They were laced with date rape drugs and aphrodisiacs," Harry said. His tone was somber. "Enough to kill a small child."

Tom's growled in his throat, rubbing viciously at his skin. "I remember, now. I arrested that woman. She was a biter, that bitch."

In a stroke of sudden confidence, he plucked up Harry's hand. Tom ran the boy's fingers across the puckered scar on his arm - Harry's eyes dilated in the dark, the sensitive pads brushing against soft hair. "She left me that scar. Left quite the impression."

Harry laughed at the unintentional joke.

"That's around the time I started visiting your apothecary," Tom admitted. "I saw some of the medication on display and looked up your website. My mother seemed interested, so I got her some ginseng tea there. She loves it."

"I'm glad." Green eyes crinkled around the corners.

"I always try to get in and out very fast. My nose is sensitive and your shop always smells like rotten eggs and frankincense."

Harry snickered. "Slughorn keeps spilling the sulfur. It's stuck in the carpet by now."

Tom considered him, eyes narrowed. "It's a wonder we haven't met sooner."

"A wonder," Harry repeated. He blinked, shifting in place. "You said . . . your mother's medication. Is she ill?"

Tom's heart skipped a beat.

He cursed his loose tongue. Perhaps the lack of proper oxygen was getting to his head. "She is," he said curtly. "Quite ill."

"Oh." Harry didn't know what to say; no more than Tom did when Harry mentioned his parent's deaths.

Tom snorted, fighting the urge to face simply wasn't enough space for his shoulders. "That's right," he mocked bitterly. "Oh."

"Want to talk about it?" Harry invited softly.

"I rarely speak to even my friends about it." What friends? his inner voice said, cruel. "So why do you think I'd tell you?"

Harry's open, kind expression abruptly closed off. His attractive features went blank, eyes almost dead.

"Of course," he murmured, and risked the pain of moving to turn on his side. Harry stared at the sides of the coffin, feeling suddenly, utterly alone. "Sorry. I - " He fought the sudden prickle of tears. His heart thumped wildly, the claustrophobia persistent as he curled in on himself. "Sorry."

They sat in silence. Silent as the dead.

To be continued . . .